One Night of Scandal
by Butterfly Conlon
Summary: On the night of her debut into society, all Roz Rialto wants is to prove to her family that she has matured into a lady. But, the night ends in a scandalous disaster, and she finds herself suddenly, unthinkably...betrothed to none other than Spot Conlon!
1. Chapter 1

ONE NIGHT OF SCANDAL

CHAPTER ONE

Roselyn Jane Rialto was coming out. Unfortunately, what she was coming out of was the balcony of her brother-in-law's uptown mansion, clinging for dear life to the trellis that supported the full-bloomed roses. The flounces of her sea foam green gown were impossibly tangled within the elaborate wooden plaits of the trellis.

A telltale sound of the expensive material signaled yet another flounce ripping cleanly off the gown, causing Roselyn to grasp more ferociously the fragile damask roses, a wayward thorn embedding itself into the soft flesh of the pad of her thumb. She swore silently to herself as bright red drops of crimson began to fall.

"Roz! What the bloody hell do you want me to do? The whole trellis is going to fall down, you included!"

Roz lifted her head upward at the normally composed voice of Lorelei Mosside, now escaping in a high-pitched, frantic wail. Her best friend clung to the railing of the marble balcony, her hazel eyes wide and chestnut hair pinned in a neat chignon. A few wisps fell over her brow as she leaned further down, peering at Roz. Her pert face suddenly went aghast and she drew a hand to her ample bosom offset by her low cut maroon gown. "Goodness gracious, Roselyn! Will you please cover up down there!"

Roz arched a brow at Lorelei before glancing down at her once magnificently crafted gown—a luxury imported from Paris just for her ball by her Devon—to find that the lovely neckline that was adorned with tiny sea foam green roses and glittering crystal beads had most unfortunately torn in her tirade with the trellis, and one of the roses hung sadly limp, revealing a breast. Roz elicited a laugh in spite of herself, as she untangled a set of fingers from the trellis to hold the material in a more modest manner. Alas, this gesture is just what a mischievous Pan must have aspired for—on the night of her debut into society nonetheless-- for as soon as the released her grasp to cover up, she felt the trellis begin to buckle from under her and knew she too would fall with it.

Without bothering to glance up at Lorelei, her eyes too transfixed on the window that opened to the darkened room before her, she shouted up to her friend, "Remind me why I am on this trellis staring into this contemptible window?"

"Because!" Lorelei called back, poorly concealing the mirth in her voice, "Georgiana Walker supposedly has that newsboy Spot Conlon in her bedroom right this very moment!"

"Oh, right," Roz sighed, her eyes betraying her listless tone and glittering devilishly, as the trellis finally collapsed under her weight and she fell into the darkness below.

***

Spot Conlon was like an eager child on Christmas, impatiently awaiting to open his present, and Georgiana Walker was said present….said chaste, pure, _virgin _present.

He could feel the white-hot warmth flood his groin merely just by drinking in her sight. He released an unrequited groan.

She stood with her back to him, garbed in only her crinoline, tied in a tidy bow at the small of her back. Her top was free of any clothing, revealing the creamy white flesh of her back, which a fall of luxurious ashy brown hair cascaded down. She looked over her shoulder at him, her dark, gilded lashes fluttering and her full, reddened lips pouting.

"Why, my dear Mr. Conlon," she purred, her dark eyes locking upon his. "I do daresay that I have heard of your great reputation." Those luscious lips curled into a smirk and Spot felt his heart drop to the floor. His trousers suddenly felt unbearably tight and he wanted to have his hands all over any part of that alabaster skin they could touch. There was no two ways about it; Miss Walker was a cock-tease. Then again, most rich girls with prim and proper exteriors usually turned out to be the wildest…and most desperate for some fun.

But he would play her game. He returned the smirk as he ran a hand carelessly through his dirty blond hair. "And uh, what exactly have you heard of my so-called 'great reputation,' Miss Walker?" He closed the distance between them in her room until he was a few mere inches behind her. He ducked his head close to her ear and held his hands aloft, so they almost grasped her shoulders.

Georgiana seemed somewhat taken aback by his unabashed manner, as her bee-stung lips fell open and her eyes widened, but she still did not uncross her arms from across her chest that shrouded her lovely breasts. If he wanted to have those lovely breasts in his hands before her brother came to collect her, he had better kick up the charm and act fast. He drew his mouth to her ear, gently nuzzling aside her hair, and whispered into her ear, his voice husky and breath hot, "You wouldn't mean this reputation, now would you, Miss Walker?"

And with his long, elegant fingers, he caught her shoulders in his experienced grasp, and spun her round expertly into him. Before she could react, he pulled her into him and brought his lips feverishly to his. She released a sigh of protest, momentarily pulling away from the embrace, but her sighs soon turned to moans of delight and she was seduced fully and completely by his skilled wiles. One hand wove into her tangles of hair, and he sharply snapped her head back, lowering his lips to her creamy neck. He could feel the pulse quickening beneath his lips. He took his chance, now that she was rendered utterly defenseless, and brought a hand to a full, luscious breast.

Georgiana elicited a broken exhalation of pleasure as Spot trailed his practiced lips down her neck, over her collarbone, down to the nipple…Spot knew the warmth in his groin was about to bubble over and explode, when there was a sudden burst of curt raps on the bedroom door.

Georgiana's eyes suddenly fluttered open and her body went rigid. She uttered a gasp. A second set of knocks came, followed by a matronly voice. "Miss Walker, are you ready miss? We have to finish getting you dressed for Miss Rialto's debut tonight!"

Georgiana issued a squeak, and glanced down at Spot, catching her gaze and still suckling on her breast as thought he were an infant. As a third series of knocks filled the room, a grand panic seemed to overtake the girl for she quickly pushed Spot off her, sending stumbling backwards and almost slamming his ass into a vanity.

"Yes, Mary, yes I am coming!" Georgiana called over her shoulder at the maid who had come to collect her for her older brother.

She turned back to Spot, her eyes wide, hair an utter wreck, and lips still swollen from kisses. She appeared to Spot to look rather like a deer caught in the aim of a hunter's bow, before she finally found her composure and narrowed her eyes. As he still struggled to catch his sense of balance, Georgiana stormed over him, her pace deadly quick, and spun him around, ushering him hurriedly towards the bedroom window.

"You have to leave now before Aaron finds you here! Go now!"

He had dared many swift escapes to flee angry husbands, but this was absurd.

Before Spot could sputter a response to the half naked debutante, Georgiana had him at the open window. Spot was too flabbergasted at the speed by which the events had turned ill in his favor to protest her giving him a hardy push out the window and into the smoldering summer night.

Spot released a yell only when he realized his feet were no longer in Miss Georgiana Walker's sleeping chambers, but treading darkened air.

***

The events of that night should have unfolded in a decidedly different fashion for Roz.

She should have never been tangled up in that trellis, yet at her debut, which would most likely be commencing now. A debut, in which the debutante in honor would be untimely late.

She knew the orchestra would begin to play the first notes of her entrance, and the staircase would be empty. She knew her sister Laurel's bright smile would falter into an expression of utter heart break as the realization came to her that her baby sister would not be showing. But most of all, Roz could not bear the disappointment etching itself onto the proud, handsome features of her brother-in-law Devon's face.

Devon Northfordshire had always been a dear friend of the Rialto family, and when Roz and Laurel's parents perished in a carriage accident, they had become his wards, with Laurel eventually marrying Devon and becoming the mistress of his estate. Devon had shown much patience with Roz, as she had been a horror as a child and a terror as an adolescent, her mind on ways to defy her caregivers and make mischief.

Tonight, she had wanted to make Devon proud, to prove to him once and for all that she wasn't _Rascally Roz_ anymore, that she had finally matured into a lady of good breeding.

But…

…but as she had been dressing in her bedroom in preparation of the ball, Lorelei just had to peek her head in and dish that juicy little morsel that Evil Georgiana had Spot Conlon—a_ newsboy_ of all people!—in her room at that very moment….and Roz had just been too tempted…

For as long as she had traveled in Devon's social circles, she had been the acquaintance of Georgiana Walker. Georgiana was Roz's age, and ward of her older brother Aaron Walker. Mr. Walker was a prestigious banker in New York, but also of a line of old money, great sums of which he inherited when his father murdered his mother for an alleged affair and then placed the very same pistol in his own mouth. Quite scandalous, but Mr. Walker was quite the charming gentleman, and had retained society's good graces, determined to give his sister the best upbringing with the best connection. He had rented the townhouse next door to Devon's for the two of them for the summer.

A perpetual rivalry, it seemed, had festered ever since Roz and Georgiana had first at a ball the Wilkinson's' had thrown several years ago. A terrible rivalry had formed, and catching Georgina Wilkinson with a _newsboy_ was just not downright scandalous, but would be completely ruin her connections and any good prospect for a decent husband.

Yes, things should have been going quite differently that night…and Roz should not be plummeting down the side of her brother-in-law's townhouse in her maddeningly expensive crystal-studded, sea foam dress that had been imported from Paris just she had been trying to one up evil Georgiana….

Just as she had almost reached the ground, the wind was suddenly knocked forcefully out of her as an object that she reckoned akin to a sack of potatoes materialized from above her. She was still gaping for breath, when she slammed into the grassy area between the two townhouses, the infernal sack of potatoes landing upon her. The fall wouldn't have been that terrible if whatever it was hadn't decided to intercept her.

Roz saw stars for a moment as she landed on her back, her head hitting softly off the grass. She heard a sound which she at first concluded was a moan she had uttered, but it sounded exceedingly too deep, too masculine…

Roz's eyes widened as far as humanly possible as she regained her bearings to regard the form that slumped over her.

Unfortunately, the object in question was not a sack of potatoes, but an exceedingly handsome man. His glittering blue eyes were dazed, his handsome face flushed. His burnished blond hair was askew, falling over his brow. She became suddenly, embarrassingly aware, of the hard planes of his muscular chest that pressed atop the softness of her breasts; the lean, sinewy legs that were nestled neatly between her spread knees.

Indeed, he was an exceedingly handsome man…that had just fallen from Georgina Walker's window and on top of her in a most scandalous manner.

He pushed himself up from his palms spread on the ground on either side of her, and regarded her bemusedly. Roz barely had a moment to open her mouth when she heard her name called by an impossibly stern voice.

"Roselyn Jane Rialto."

Roz not even turn her head to the side to know that it was Devon that spoke her name. But she turned in the direction anyhow, only to discover half of those in attendance to her coming out had filed outside the townhouse and were gaping in open disbelief at her and the newsboy. Lorelei stood behind Devon, looking as though she could wish herself ten fathoms underground. The look in her eyes said it all. She had only called Devon because she had thought Roz was in danger of falling…not that she would be caught in such an indecent display with a man.

The newsboy lying between her opened knees, her torn dress from the trellis, and his swollen lips from Georgina's kisses didn't help appearances for that matter.

How could she possibly even begin to explain it was all a fateful mistake?

She had made a debut, all right.

Roz could only turn to her brother-in-law and mustered a half-hearted smile. "Hello, Devon!"


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Had Roz's life been a romantic flight of fancy, perhaps as detailed as in an Austin novel, then the night would have turned out spectacularly different than reality truly had.

It would not have mattered if she had been caught in a compromisable position with a newsboy in front of nearly all good society inhabiting in New York City…Nay, her brother in law would have no need to feel any shame toward her whatsoever for, in this story, Spot Conlon would not just be a lowly, n'er do well newsboy…but he would be the offspring of a fabulously wealthy and well established family in New York who had decided that he could not live with the constraints of society and had run away from home to not only live with the Brooklyn newsboys…but become their leader…and of course they would be married, and she mistress of his fabulously affluent estate, and her position within good society would be secured once more, and she would make Georgiana Walker positively drippingly green with envy in the process…

Alas, her life at the moment was not so charmed. Instead, it resembled something out of Shelley's Frankenstein, a genre much closer to her heart. Except she was Dr. Frankenstein and Spot Conlon the monster in this mess that she had created. And her dignity and good graces in society would play Frankenstein's younger brother William, strangled by the monster, just as her probability for ever finding a good husband had been murdered…Or perhaps nanny Justine…wrongfully accused by the mob and executed for her crimes…just as Roz had been so wrongfully accused by the mob of well-bred society that had witnessed the rather handsome newsboy straddling a completely disheveled Roz…

Roz elicited a sigh and rolled over onto her stomach on the bed. Wrongfully accused was a perfectly justifiable excuse for what had occurred…but what person with any sanity would be duped into believing such a concoction? That both parties had just happened to take flight at the same moment (the newsboy being shoved out Georgiana Walker's window and Roz falling whilst trying to see said newsboy in Miss Walker's room) and that they had just happened to crash to earth at the very exact moment, him falling atop her?

Roz snorted at the very thought. They would chalk it up to nothing but a writer's romantic rationalization, not the truth. Although, the humor in the situation was that that very scenario was the absolute truth, yet who was to actually believe it?

As it was, Roz now sat in the confines of her canopy bed ruminating over how the night's events had unfolded. Truthfully, everything had been somewhat of a blur for her. She had remembered that the fall had been fantastically painful, as she most likely had suffered somewhat of a concussion-- but no one had believed she fell, why would they believe she had a concussion—and events were rather hazy. She had been pulled off of the ground, still clad in the tattered sea-foam dress intended for her debut in society—and perhaps pulled out from underneath the newsboy and ushered into the house rather quickly. She thought she could recall Devon lecturing her sternly, and that she could _feel _the embarrassment radiating off him as he had paced the parlor. And her poor dear sister, Laurel, she thought had been sobbing in the corner while her husband stormed…and sometime in the hours in between she had been ushered hurriedly to her room where she had most likely lost consciousness for a while due to the concussion she believed herself to have suffered…

But one component of the haze that had shown through bright and clear—the only factor of the night's events that she truly remembered—were the faces for a brief, flashing moment. The horror and contempt that registered on that old bag dowager Mrs. Pomery's face…the way Lorelei's eye shone too bright, betraying the sorrow her features held…the way Devon's expression did not even hold any signs of astonishment, just utter disappointment and embarrassment…and the way the newsboy had looked…

The newsboy. Roz's back went rigid and she sat straight up in bed. A devious smile crossed her lips. For slumming outside her class, Roz had to hand it to her; Georgiana certainly had a way with picking the most attractive ones. She remembered the way the newsboy leader named Spot Conlon had appeared straddling her person, his sinewy arms on either side of her shoulders in a push up position…His brassy hair had been disheveled, falling over his brow…his parted lips had been swollen from stolen kisses…his blue eyes (eyes that had been the color of her debut dress) had registered surprise…she remembered the way the hard planes of his chest had felt upon hers…how the breath from his fast expirations had felt against her cheek…and how his legs had felt on either side of hers…

Had she been a romance novelist, Roz would have had a wealth of material to fabricate the next Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightly, Mr. Rochester, or perhaps even Heathcliffe in Spot Conlon's likeness. Alas, frivolous tales of romance were not a genre close to her heart; she felt nothing for it, believe not in it, and had no use for it. Instead, to her, the newsboy was nothing more than Frankenstein's monster.

With that last thought, Roz flung her legs off the side of the bed and glanced at the clock resting on the small stand beside her bed. The hands only registered 9:45 pm.

"Is is truly only that early?" Roz murmured in surprise, rising off the bed and to her feet. She had believed it to be much later than the clock actually professed. The thought of stealing away the night in her room without facing Devon was much too difficult to swallow. She'd rather face her brother in law as soon as possible, let him lash her with his tongue, let him expel her from his estate--she would gladly pack her bags is it pleased him--but she could not bear to leave his disappointment in her fester over the course of the night.

She padded softly over to a mahogany vanity, along the way picking up a silk robe that was draped over a chair and shucked in on. She glanced at her reflection only long enough to tug her auburn hair into a hasty chignon and secure it with a mother of pearl clip (a present last year for her birthday from Devon and Laurel.)

Picking up a bee's wax candle in a little sterling silver holder from the night stand, she quickly lit it. The nearby surroundings were bathed in a soft glow, and Roz could see enough in the blackness of the night to make her way out of her room and into the hallway. She strode quietly down the corridor, the polished hardwood floors slick under her bare feet. She was like a whisper as she reached the grand staircase that descended to into the foyer. She was halfway down the staircase when she abruptly halted, her breath bating in her throat. Down past the foyer, she could see the room that housed Devon's office was awash in the harsh glow of light, and although she could not see them, she could discern the voices of her sister and her husband.

Roz quickly dropped to her haunches, perching on one of the steps, and extinguished her candle with one swift breath. She craned her neck, straining her ear in an attempt to make out fragments of the conversation carried on between the pair.

Laurel's voice was soft and low, it's normal sweetness overtaken by sadness. "Yes, but, dear, do you actually think she's truly…"

Devon's inflection was sharp and strained as he interrupted his wife. A swift pounding accentuated his voice (undoubtedly his fist against some hard surface.) "Yes, Laurel, I truly do think she's ruined all prospects for herself ever finding a husband of good breeding! I think she'll be ostracized from all society, and I damned well would not doubt it if the shun included us also."

"But, Devon…"

"But nothing, Laurel. The girl has been a goddamned menace every since I have taken her in. I had the foolish notion that this rambunctiousness and mischievousness was all simply a childish faze…I thought that your sister might somehow grown out of it and that one day she would be accepted as a lady into our circles…but after tonight, after what she did…I fear I was wrong. I fear I was so utterly mistaken. And now I do not know what I will do with her now. Her prospects are entirely ruined…"

"Devon, surely you can't mean that?" Laurel's tone was laced with a slight hopefulness.

Devon's stern tone dashed all signs of optimism that his wife may have held for his sister. "Yes, Laurel, I mean that from the bottom of my soul. You know how these people work. Gossip through the grapevines…Roselyn Rialto found in the embraces of a vagabond on the night of her debut! Can you believe how these gossipmongers will run with it? She's singlehandedly ruined any chances for a good man asking for her hand in marriage…and now I do not know what I am do to with her? Place her in a cottage in the country side so she can waste away her life penning away those insipid, childish ghost stories? Nonsense! I refuse to allow that girl completely destroy herself. There must be some man out there willing to marry her! I must simply raise the dowry, I suppose. I will pay ten thousand to any man willing to marry your sister."

He elicited an extended sigh, and the pair fell silent.

Roz was not aware that she had not even been breathing until she heard a low, silky baritone announce the presence of a third party.

"Northfordshire, it's Walker. Forgive the late hour, but I just wanted to pay my dues."

Roz drew in an audible breath out of astonishment, which she swore caused the tall, lanky form stepping out of the shadows to cast a slight glance in the direction of her hidden form on the staircase.

"Ah, Walker, no apologies. Do come in."

At Devon's beckoning, Aaron Walker stepped out of the shadows and into the light radiating from Devon's study.

Aaron Walker was one who at first glance could be regarded as male figure straight out of an Austin or Bronte tale, a Mr. Darcy or Heathcliffe. Tall, dark, handsome, and brooding, indeed, Walker had all the characteristics that would render him utterly perfect for such tales of romance. Unlike his novel counterparts, however, Roz thoroughly doubted that there was any good under the arrogant façade of affluent financier.

"Northfordshire, you're too kind. So sorry to drop by unannounced like this, but your butler granted me entrance and I thought I might catch you on the whim that you were still entertaining in the parlor."

Walker's figure came briefly into Roz's view, illuminated by the soft glow of Devon's study. Yes, he certainly appeared the handsome ideal of romantic leading men. A tall drink of water, lean, impeccably dressed from the perfected cravat to the mirror shine on his leather riding boots. A classically handsome face with aquiline nose, raised cheek bones, and framed by a thatch of thick raven hair.

Yet, Roz despised the man. Ever since she had met Aaron Walker, there had always been something off putting about the banker to her. She always saw past the beauty of his face, and stared past the depths of his dark eyes, to sense _something _to send shudders of repulsion down her spine…

And now here he was, oh so coincidentally visiting Devon…right after he had announced to his wife to frustration that he would sell Roz off to _any _man for the increased sum of ten thousand…a large sum, even for a man of Aaron Walker's status…

_Walker! _Her heart suddenly leapt into her mouth and nearly out of her lips in sheer fright. How long had Walker been standing in the shadows outside Devon's study? Walker had said that the Holmes, the butler, had granted him egress to the estate but had not announced him. So how long had he been waiting in the shadows, outside Devon's study, listening to the conversation only meant for his and his wife's ears only?

Roz's brain had been jumbled with such rapid thoughts that she had not even listened to the conversation the trio shared in the study. It was only when she saw Walker's tall form in the illuminated doorway that reality harshly returned to her. Walker was issuing his farewells for the night, and was making his way past the staircase where Roz sat rigidly perched in darkness. She swore he knew she was on those stairs, although there was possibly no way that he could discern her shape through the blackness. Nevertheless, he seemed to acknowledge her, a smug smile on his lips, as he nodded briefly in Roz's direction.

And with that, he preceded forward, the shadows of the foyer enveloping him.

Actuality of the situation finally dawned upon Roz. If Walker had heard Devon's words, would a man of his status take advantage of the offer? It was almost promised. Walker was a wealthy bachelor who would be considered by good society to be a fabulous catch. Aside from being already acquaintances with him, Devon would look upon the match as excellent, for if Roz was to become betrothed to a well-bred man, then perhaps good society would be able to forgive the debacle that had occurred the night of her intended debut, and the Northfordshire name could one more be restored, untarnished.

Walker would get his ten thousand for marrying the unwanted and Roz would become Mrs. Aaron Walker, sister in law to Georgiana Walker, and would say adieu to any semblance of her life's true ambition: to become a novelist like Shelley and Stoker. Walker would certainly never his wife to pen, let alone publish, such fanciful tales that would bring embarrassment to his household.

Had he truly heard Devon before he announced himself? And if he had, and if he would truly act upon an offer for such a sum of money, when would he inquire for Devon's permission marry his poor disgraced little sister in law? Tomorrow? The day after that? When?

Roz only felt horror at the prospect of becoming Aaron Walker's wife. She rose sharply to her feet; feeling genuinely sickened at the notion, when an idea only a lunatic would dream up suddenly came to her. Blame it on the wild imagination of an aspiring author, but a plan was suddenly sprung upon her to stop this unholy union from occurring.

And she did not have to think twice about putting it into action. She was up the stairs and hurtling into her room in a heartbeat. Only one destination on her mind, she quickly slid her feet into a pair of slippers and threw the window to her room open, disappearing into the cool summer night.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Spot Conlon was a man of simple tastes.

After an arduous day of selling papes, he enjoyed nothing more than returning to the lodging house to retire to his room with a lovely female companion. Or simply returning to engage in a friendly game of poker with his buddies to get drunk and enjoy rounds of conversation about the lovely female companions they wish they had.

This particular night, he was engaging in the latter. He sat, the King Arthur of his fellow poker knights of the decrepit round table. A half filled beer mug sat before him and a cigarette dangled limply from his lips, smoldering, wisps of smoke rising to the air. His cards were fanned before him, not a particularly great hand, as he half heartedly listened to the newsie beside him describe the exquisite specimen of a woman he had eyed today while selling papes.

"'er tits were big as watermelons, I tell ya, and would have tasted mighty better! If only I could have gotten my hands on 'em!"

This crude remark elicited a round of laughter from the boys, and Spot feigned a strained smirk. He was on his sixth and a half beer, and not particularly drunk yet, but desperately wishing he was. He had not breathed a word to any of them about his rendezvous with the upper crust Georgiana Walker. That, he had planned for tonight, describing every last detail to his friends as they sat around the poker table, slack jaw and colored green with envy at his devious devices with such an absurdly desirable girl.

Yet, instead of rousing them with such insatiable tales of the upper class, here he was, sulking behind his playing cards and drowning his sorrows in brew. What a wasted night. And he had been so close….

"Heya, Spot, ya in or out?" Whitie Wilson's voice suddenly invaded Spot's ears, dashing his reverie. He looked up to the newsie over his hand of cards. His lips drawn in a pensive line, he exhaled deeply. "I'm out, Whitie," he sighed, throwing the cards down, where they fluttered haphazardly to the table. "I'm turning in for the night boys." He stretched his long legs out before him, pushing his chair back from the table as its legs scraped against the floor.

"This early, Spot?" Shade Cotrill inquired, briefly flicking his eyes over the cards he held before him, fanned out in a hand.

"Yeah, Shady, this early," Spot intoned listlessly, inhaling one last drag on the smoldering remnants of his cigarette before flicking it to the floor, snubbing it out the toe of a booted foot. He rose slowly to his feet, and the sudden urge to stretch his limbs overtook him. He raised his arms over his head, briefly raking his fingers through his hair. "Night, boys," he said, meandering towards the stairs leading to the second floor.

"Night, boss!" the boys cooed back mockingly, the inebriating effects of the booze obviously beginning to become quite apparent.

A corner of Spot's lips curled up in a smile despite himself, and his raised an arm high over his head, extending the middle finger in the direction of the continuing poker party.

This gesture only elicited more hoots from the boys. "Hey, Spot!" Shade called after the leader. "What if Adelle comes callin' on ya? What do you want us to say?"

Spot briefly halted, planting his foot on the first step, and glanced over his shoulder. "Tell her to fuck off! I'm all out of money anyhow. Ran me broke the last time!" he hollered.

He wasn't even to the top of the stairs before his shirt was unbuttoned and suspenders hanging loose at his sides. He was working on the last button as he passed the main bunk room, and murmured his goodnights to the boys not participating in the poker game. With a somnolent sigh, he continued down to the last door on the left—his quarters. He slammed his body weight against the weary door, and the plank of battered wood granted him egress to the darkened room.

The room itself was nothing special. Before Spot ascended as leader, it had been used as a storage closet for miscellaneous junk. It was just taken for granted amongst the newsboys that he had wanted his own room since his reputation for women had become increasingly unbridled, yet Spot had taken the quarters on for other reasons. For all the open frankness that he may exhibit with his boys, he was still a notoriously private person, ferociously guarding a self and secrets that very few, if any newsies, could lay claim to actually knowing.

Striding over to a warped vanity that was pushed unceremoniously against one wall, Spot fished a match out of his pocket and struck it against a wall. He lit a small kerosene lamp resting on top of the vanity, and the room was suddenly awash in the soft glow of its light. Not allowing the flame to go to waste, he placed a cigarette between his lips and lit up. Taking a long drag, he flicked the used match carelessly to the side.

He shucked off the dull grey button down and kicked off his shoes before falling onto the bottom of a dilapidated bunk. The worn, threadbare mattress uttered an unhappy noise under his weight, and Spot shifted his body into a more comfortable position onto his back. He stared into the darkness of the bunk above him. The mattress was still fragrant with a collection of flower blossoms, a compilation of all the scents of those he had bedded had worn in times before. He blew a lazy smoke ring into the air, lost in his thoughts.

Brooklyn was finally at peace and her leader could finally rest. It had been (although it was incredibly hard to believe) that it had been over half a year since Midtown had fallen, since Oliver Haddox had died, and since Angel Haddox escaped into that dark alleyway and out of his life.

Ever so cautiously, laughter and revelry had gradually returned to them, until one day it seemed as though what had occurred had not truly been reality, yet some horrid nightmare, a darkened dream that they all had to lock away in the abysses of their minds if they were to ever live life as they had before Midtown.

But they had, and all was finally well. One day at a time was the adage Spot liked to acerbically live by.

Although his face was still exceedingly handsome, he still bore the physical scars of that last encounter. A lovely, healed scar rode his right bicep, and one was proudly displayed parallel to his clavicle. The most visible one though, ran across the bridge of his nose, though in his experience with women, he found that it simply gave him more character.

Though the physical scars may be healed, the emotional ones were far from repair. It would have been unthinkable to display this Achilles tendon of emotion to his boys, so he had simply covered the pain the only way he had known how: fucking as many women as he could possibly acquire, whether he paid for their services or not.

Spot's lips formed a circle and he released a perfect smoke circle. Georgiana Walker. Miss Walker was to have been the jewel in this illustrious crown, alas, it had not been meant to be for the night had taken a most decidedly different turn…

A sudden series of curt raps from the door removed Spot from his thoughts. He could feel his face heat up and his breathing increase. His temper had been flared. And he had specifically told the dumbasses that no one was to disturb him.

"Who the hell is it?" he hissed to the intruder outside his door, venom laced into each syllable.

There was a slight pause before the person spoke. The voice was tense and unsure. "Uh, Spot. It's Whitie."

Spot released a groan, swinging his legs to the floor and sitting erect in bed. "Whitie, what in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph do you want?"

"Boss, there's someone here to see you." The hesitancy seemed to infiltrate Whitie's voice more and more with each word spoken.

"If it's Adelle then tell her to _fuck off!_ I have no more goddamned money!" There was a pregnant silence outside the door, and Spot took a satisfied puff on the cigarette, thinking he had warned away any potential visitors. He was just about to lie back in bed when Whitie spoke once more.

"Spot, it's _not Adelle._"

He could feel the blood pulse through his veins white hot with fury. He nearly snapped the cigarette in half when he clenched his teeth together. He jolted to his feet and strode heatedly across the room, placing his hand on the door knob to bestow upon Whitie a verbal lashing.

"Wilson, I don't give a shit if it's…" His words died a abrupt death on his tongue as he banged the door open and espied what was standing before him.

_The girl. _The girl with the red hair that he had somehow fallen onto after Georgiana had pushed him out her window was standing before him in his doorway. The last person on earth he had expected to have come calling on him so late at night…

He didn't even noticed Whitie standing behind the girl, only her. Her breathing was labored, and her breast rose and fell with quickly, as though she had sojourned quite some distance to appear before him. Her skin was ghostly white, other than her cheeks which had bloomed red from the journey. Tendrils of unruly hellfire red hair fell across her brow. But her eyes, green and glittering and full of utter determination, were locked only upon him.

He could not help but feel suddenly taken aback by her startling appearance outside his door.

"Well, aren't you going to invite a lady in, Mr. Conlon?" she intoned, arching a brow and bringing her silk robe together with the clutch of a hand.

Spot was too flabbergasted by her appearance to actually say anything in return; he only took a step back from the doorway, the broken cigarette still dangling limply between his lips.

The girl took the gesture as a sign of welcome, and stepped into his quarters, brushing past him (when he inhaled, he could determine the faint smell of lilac), and strode lightly across the room. She pulled out the rickety chair that was usually tucked into the vanity, and sunk primly into it, crossing her legs before her and resting her intertwined fingers on her lap. Her glittering green eyes remained on Spot. She smiled.

His gaze still transfixed on her, Spot slammed the door shut, not caring or realizing that it hit into Whitie's nose, who was still standing on the other side. He did not hear his best friend's cries of protest; he could only gap at the girl.

"I suppose you thought you'd never see me again, did you?" she asked.

"You could say that again, honey," he said, spitting out the cigarette butt and moving over to the bed. He sunk down into the lower mattress, palms on his knees and eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you and why the hell are you here? And how the hell do you know my name?"

The faint red tint intensified in the apples of her cheeks and she looked away from him for a moment in embarrassment. She issued a laugh, like a tinkling bell, and her gaze found his again. "Those are all very good question, sir, and all deserve explanations. To answer your first question, my name is Roselyn Rialto. To answer your third question secondly, your reputation is just not known solely within the confines of the lower class. And lastly, I am here with a business proposal."

Spot's rigid posture relaxed somewhat and he laughed in spite of himself. "And just what kind of business proposal could you, Roselyn Rialto, have for me?"

She elicited a nervous twitter and pulled absentmindedly at a wayward strand of hair that had escaped her chignon. "Well, you, see…it's just that…I was wondering if you would be interested in marrying me?"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

In her mind's eye, Roz had conjured the image of the gentleman bearing the appellation of Spot Conlon, Fearless Leader of Brooklyn, to resemble a mutilated mess something akin to that of Frankenstein's monster. Although, try as she might to dissuade herself from the handsome curves of his face and strong planes of his body, the man seated before her on the bunk bed resembled nothing of the literary monster.

This, of course, rendered her to feel all the more childish at sitting in this man's bedroom and inquiring for his hand and marriage.

The plan had struck her ever so suddenly, and although utterly wild, had seemed so fabulously fail proof. It had remained so even as she had stolen out of Devon's estate and into the balmy summer night only to follow the cobblestone roads to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.

Indeed, her plan had seemed absolutely perfect up to the point where she had actually professed the question in point to him. For in the moments afterward, an unbearably heavy pregnant pause hung between them. He did not even seem to register her query in all its fullness. His eyes did not bug comically out of his skull and his jaw did not drop to the floor. The only gesture he made was a slight tilting of his head to the left. His eyes were still fixated upon her.

Roz could not bear the unnatural silence, and she rose out of the chair suddenly, pacing to the far corner of the room. She turned over her shoulder and regarded him. The words flowed from her lips as easily as they did from her pen to the paper. "Before you rush to answer, I suppose I should explain my rationale for even proposing such a rash thought to you."

Spot cocked a brow at her words, and she thought she noticed a corner of his lips turn up in a hard to bridle grin. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, and leaned back further in the bed until his back was pressed against a wall. He said nothing. She continued.

She sighed deeply. "After our not so clandestine meeting earlier this night in front of all good society it is implied now that I will never marry a husband of good breeding…that because I was found with you, all good connections I could have hoped for with a good match will be ruined. You see…tonight was supposed to be my debut into society. A debut is…"

He raised a hand in her direction. "Although I may not be living in high society myself, Red, I know what these fancy debuts are you richies get all your feathers in a ruffle for."

Roz felt the heat creep back into her cheeks and she averted his eyes from his. Mistake one; do not underestimate his intelligence just because he is a newsboy. She closed the distance between them, halting beside the bunk bed and leaning against its wooden support beam. She decided to be blunt. "Quite frankly, I could give a damn about what high society thinks of me or if I'm a debutante. Point is, my brother-in-law is under the impression that my connections are lost for good. Point is, he's hiked up my dowry now to a hefty sum, and he's willing it to offer it to any man that would marry such a girl in my standing."

His stare remained flat, and she could feel the acid dripping off each syllable. "And just how much is your brother-in-law selling your pretty little ass off for?"

She dropped down onto the edge of the bed beside him, never breaking his gaze. "Ten thousand. Free and clear."

He stared at Roz a moment longer, before issuing a bitter chuckle and pushing himself off the bunk and to his feet. He continued to laugh, even as he dug into his pants pocket to retrieve a cigarette and match. He laughed even as he lit the cigarette and took a long drag. The laughter died only as he exhaled sharply, the smoke escaping through his pursed lips. Then he turned to her, and his once dull stare flashed dangerously. She noticed the muscles in his back had tensed.

"So let me get this straight here, Red. You don't know me and I don't know you. The only reason I do know you is because I was pushed out Georgiana Walker's window and for whatever reason in hell you fell at the exact same time as me and I just so happened to land on you. And now because of that, your perfect little reputation is ruined. But now, you think you can just stroll into here, into Brooklyn, into the lodging house, into _my room _with the thought that '_Oh dat Spaht Cahnlan, dat doity ole' leahdah of Brooklyn, he's a good foah nuttin' bummah and of coise I would wanna marry ya foah a little bit a cash!_"

With the sudden stealth of a large cat he was upon her, back arched and taut arms on either side of her, palms flat on the mattress. His face mere inches from Roz's, his eyes flashed treacherously. "Let me tell you, Red, I don't know what you rich girls say about me in your gossip circles, but you don't know shit about me. And you, Miss Rich Bitch with a silver spoon shoved up your ass, you actually have the audacity to come here, to me, and think you could sway me to marrying you for a cash bribe? Are you truly that ignorant?"

He elicited a disgusted noise and pushed away from her, inhaling deeply on the cigarette.

She felt the knot immediately in the back of her throat, and the hot tears came more quickly than she would have liked, spilling down her cheeks. "No…that's not what I was thinking…I was not thinking ill of you…but I maybe thought that you can't be a newsboy forever…and some money would help…and it only would have been for a couple months…and then you could have walked away with half…I'm sorry…I…"

Roz, who could not remember the last time she had actually shed a tear, broke down into sobs in the Leader of Brooklyn's room. She buried her face in her hands as her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

"Ah, Jesus H. Christ," Spot hissed at her emotional display. "Don't do that. Don't cry. I hate it when dames cry."

She felt the mattress fluctuate as he sat down warily beside her. He spat the remains of the cigarette to the floor and snubbed it out with a toe. "For Christ's sake, stop that, will you, Red." His tone was quieter, more soothing.

The sobs quickly dissipated, and she peeled her fingers back from her face, regarding him cautiously with red-rimmed eyes.

He snorted. "So, in that dramatic display, I took away the knowledge that you had me in your highest thoughts the entire time, of course thinking nothing of yourself, because, at my age, I can't be a newsie forever and I would need to start a life of my own at some point…"

She hiccupped through the waning tears.

He continued. "…And I would walk away with half, is that not what you said?"

She nodded.

"And if would be only for a few months?"

She nodded again.

"And what would happen once those few months came to an end?"

Roz removed her hands from her face, and folded them pertly in her lap. She straightened and stared forward. "Annulment."

"Ah, I see, an annulment." His cat-like grin stretched ear to ear and she could not even witness it. "And on just what grounds would you pursue an annulment from me?"

She turned to him, her eyes flashing. Her breathing was jagged and labored, and her cheeks were burning. "Infidelity. That's an easy one. With a reputation like yours how could it not be believed?"

His eyes glittered impishly and he arched a brow as he crossed his arms over his lean chest. "Now I thought you came here to propose to me, not insult me."

Roz elicited a disgusted shriek and rose with a start to her feet. She turned to him, her once neat chignon history and the wild red curls falling around her face. "I was a fool, an absolute fool for coming here. I apologize for wasting your time. Good day to you, sir." She started for the door, placing her hand on the knob with all intentions of flinging the forsaken piece of wood open and escaping into the night, never laying eyes on Spot Conlon ever again if she could help it, when she was halted by him placing a strong hand upon her wrist.

He must have been right behind her, for his hot breath danced along her ear canal with each word. "What did you really expect me to say?"

She turned slowly over her shoulder until she was facing him. He was mere inches from her. Roz felt her breath involuntarily bate in her throat. She was suddenly overcome by self awareness of the fact that she had truly never been alone in a room before with a man, discounting her brother-in-law. Because of this, her senses sharpened tenfold and she was suddenly, painfully aware of everything in his room; of how deep the night's darkness truly was save for the faint glow of the kerosene lamp that played off his features, of how he towered before above her, the gentle, rhythmic breathing of his bare chest so close to hers, of his scent…the scent of nicotine and whiskey and of the streets…and of his face.

She raised her eyes to his, to his face so close to hers. Indeed, this man was no monster as her mind had attempted to conjure in vain, he was anything but. His eyes glittered and the stray hair that fell across his hair burnished gold in the light of the lamp. Indeed, self awareness crept into every crevice of Roz's person until she could not bear it any longer. She turned away from him.

"I don't know," she murmured.

"I want to know one thing," he queried.

"What?" she cried, jolted by his question, breaking free of his grasp and retreating to the vanity chair that she had once occupied.

He leaned with his back against the doorway, blocking any flight she may pursue, whether the gesture was intentional or not. He fished a cigarette from behind his ear and placed it between his lips. "Why?"

"Why?" she echoed, crinkling her brow in confusion.

"You heard me," he said, lighting up. "I want to know what would drive a richie like you with everything at her feet to come here, to me, Spot Conlon, Leader of the Brooklyn fuckin' newsies and ask me to marry you for some little scam."

Roz sighed wearily and stared at her hands. She pondered his question. As a writer, her brain could conjure any number of myriad stories to mislead him with. Although, she quickly thought against the notion, for she had come to discover in her short time knowing him, that Spot Conlon was one not likely to be easily deceived. He would be able to sniff out her fanciful lies and call her out on them. Best then just to tell the truth.

Resigned to her fate, Roz spoke. "Aaron Walker." Before he could interrupt her, she continued. "But _you_ would know him better as Georgiana Walker's brother. I am afraid that he overheard my brother-in-law Devon make his offer about raising my dowry to ten thousand to whatever man would marry me. And I am very much afraid that he would act upon it."

He snorted. "So you marry another richie and live out your life happy and content with your tea parties and fancy schmancy balls. What's so wrong with that picture, Red?"

Roz released a cry and rose to her feet, her eyes flashing. Her voice was high and impassioned. "Because!" she cried, "because marrying a wealthy man like Aaron Walker and living my life out in a flurry of tea parties and fancy balls is not how I want to live out the rest of my days. As I said before, I truly don't give a damn what high society thinks of me, and I stand true to that very notion right now. I want nothing more in life than to say to hell with society and live in a cottage on the sea-side and just simply write! But do you honestly think Devon would allow that for me? Devon means well and he loves me, but he would never truly allow me to pursue my true passion. If Aaron Walker overheard Devon and asks for my hand in marriage in exchange for the ten thousand then do you honestly think he would allow his little wife to be a horror novelist? Of course not! I know I speak as though I am a mad hatter, but I truly think it was fate that we met tonight, Spot Conlon, in the manner that we did! Because if I did marry you, if I did dupe them all into believing that I truly had been seeing you all along, then it would be at least a way for me to still hold onto my dream. You get the dowry, we pretend to be in marital bliss for a few months, we get an annulment and each walk away with half."

She strode across the room and stood before him, her pleading gaze locked upon his. "I am not asking you to do this for me. I am not asking you to feel any sympathy whatsoever for my plight. But what I am asking you is to at least consider what you stand to earn in this business deal. I cannot even begin to fathom how difficult it is to live in the streets. But I know that you also cannot be a newsboy forever. You obviously appear of age and are going to have to go out into the world soon and make a living for yourself, out of the safe confines of the lodging house. I am simply asking you to consider this though as you consider my business proposal. For a few months of enduring a false marriage, you would have five thousand dollars to your name when finished, and this would allow you to have something to live comfortably on."

She finished speaking, cheeks flushed and breathing labored. He only stood regarding her, back still leaning against the doorway, and gaze flat. His lips formed a circle and he blew out a perfect smoke ring. He finally spoke. "What about my needs, Red?"

The question astounded her. She hadn't even considered what needs this man may derive from such a fallacy. Roz was flabbergasted. "What…needs?" she inquired tensely.

The cat-like grin overtook his handsome features in a moment. His eyes glittered surreptitiously from under the wayward strands of hair that fell across his brow. He moved away from the doorway, inching closer to Roz, until he was standing over her. She was once more staring into his lithe torso, at the rusted key that hung about his neck on a worn strand of leather. He bowed his head, placing his lips to her ear. His hot words filled her ear and she elicited a muted sigh.

"You knew of my reputation when you came calling upon me with your little business proposal, Red. Did you really think I would accept without you giving any thoughts to my…_carnal _needs as a man?"

Roz uttered an audible gasp and immediately brought a hand to her mouth. She took a step back from him, and caught his gaze. His eyes smoldered and he still wore the same lazy grin. He knew his words had found the chink in her cool armor by the stupendous shade of crimson her skin changed to. "Are you seriously entertaining the thought that you want _me_…to…to…with _you?_" she stammered.

He shrugged, inhaling deeply on the cigarette. "I see nothing wrong with it, Red. After all, if we are to be married, then it is perfectly acceptable within the eyes of the law that I, as husband, should have access to my bride as I see fit…"

She released a cry of incredulity, her jaw dropping at his audacity, as she backed away clumsily from him. In doing so, she unceremoniously fell over the vanity chair that she had once occupied, bringing her to the floor in a flurry of red curls. She pushed the tangles of hair out of her eyes with a vengeance as she looked up at him, finding he had followed her across the room, and stood above her, still puffing idly on his cigarette.

She involuntarily brought a hand to her silk robe, clutching it shut. She searched his cool blue eyes, yearning for some semblance of sanity. "But…but what about the girls you already see? Plenty of husbands commit infidelity…"

His wicked smile grew. "Yes, Red, I am sure in your circles they do. But, this marriage has to be believable, and affairs and broken hearts can be messy and leave behind tell-tale trails of adultery. If you truly want it to be believable, I am going to have to abstain from my girls for a few months."

Roz opened her mouth to protest, when the words died upon her lips, manifesting in a small grunt. A sudden thought stuck her mind akin to lightening, and her eyes widened. Her voice was high. "Wait…does that mean you accept?"

Spot released a small chortle, as he took the cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground. He bent as the waist slightly, extending her an arm. "You sure drive a hard bargain, Red."

Her gaze still focused on his, Roz placed her hand lightly upon his arm, as his hand locked down forcefully upon her wrist. The electricity that surged through her body at the touch was undeniable. He pulled her roughly to her feet, and she wobbled a bit before regaining her center of balance.

He sighed audibly, and raked an uncomfortable hand through his hair. "Yeah, I guess that means I accept, although every sane thought in my head is telling me I'm crazy." He extended a finger, shaking it toward her, "But I accept, Red, only if you agree to my terms."

Roz gulped, and against her better judgment, extended a hand. Spot took it within his strong grasp, and they shook on it.

He released her hand, and it fell limply once more to her side. Roz felt the air had been utterly purloined from her lungs and she felt paralyzed, her feet cemented to the ground beneath her.

He issued a drawn-out hoot from across the room, and she raised her eyes to him. He had been pacing in a circle, his fingers intertwined in his hair, and his head shaking furiously. He halted suddenly, and caught her gaze.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that?"

She smiled weakly. "That's what they say about all the great writers."

***

Spot Conlon played chivalrous knight to Roz's damsel in distress as he escorted her back to the uptown estate that housed her. The time, somewhere around two in the morning, he surmised.

The streets were nearly barren, and Roz walked in step beside him, staring straight ahead and prattling gleefully away to him, recounting her life story to him. For as it was her plan, they would have to pretend as though they actually knew each other—actually loved each other—and had been wrapped up in a scandalous affair for quite some time.

He chained smoked the entire way, not saying a word.

As she had spoken, he had half-heartedly paid attention. She had said something about her parents dying in a carriage accident when she was a child, and how her now brother in-law had taken in her and her sister in before marrying said sister. He was more concerned with, as he puffed away on his cigarettes down to the butt, the gentle swishing of her round hips as she walked to and fro, the way the thin material of her silken robe hung off her frame, the way the tangles of red curls fell around her face, and the way the glare of the streetlight illuminated her pale skin.

Right now he was silently concerning himself with the way her red stained lips moved as she spoke. Though, the lips fell still suddenly and he found that she had halted abruptly. His reverie was shattered and the noise of the world once again found his ears. She had stopped on the corner of a crossroads underneath a streetlight. Spot finally looked around. He was not the least bit surprised to find that the squalid surroundings when they had first departed the lodging house had long since vanished, and in their place stood the magnificent castles that lines the streets of uptown. He turned his gaze toward her once more. Her eyebrow was arched and those red lips were pursed.

"I daresay, but this whole journey I've spoken of nothing but myself. You've hardly said a word about yourself."

He shrugged half heartedly and dropped his eyes from her piercing green gaze. "What is there really to say about a bummer like me? Parents are dead. I'm all on my own. Don't really need to know much more."

If she rolled her eyes in his direction, he did not take heed. His eyes were too busy scanning the opulent mansions that stood on either side of them.

She cleared her throat. "Well, sir, I wish to thank you for walking me home." He finally looked at her again. She stood, the streetlight casting a halo of light over her, looking as scared shitless as he felt inside. She elicited a nervous titter. "Well, this is my stop." She motioned with her head to a sprawling estate that was a few houses down from where they stood. "I suppose I will see you tomorrow then?" Her inflection rose at the end of the question, as though to ascertain some hopefulness.

He took a long drag on his cigarette. Tomorrow? What was tomorrow? Oh, yes, he was to muster all his sanity and approach this Devon Northfordshire, posing as his sister-in-law's illicit lover who wanted to make an honest woman out of her by asking for her hand and marriage…

…_and that ten thousand dollar dowry. _

He nodded absentmindedly in response. "Sure, tomorrow, then," he murmured.

A corner of those red lips was pulled into a bridled smile, and she ducked her head in direction. "Well, until tomorrow, then." She turned on her heels and stepped out of the hazy glow the streetlight cast and into the darkness of the night. He could notice her form disappearing, slipping away into the blackness, when he called to her suddenly. She stopped and regarded him over her shoulder.

"I want to know what you were doing. I want to know why you fell when I did."

He could not behold the glorious shade of crimson her pale skin took on, but she answered candidly. "I knew you were with Georgiana Walker. And I thought if I caught her in the act with you…it would ruin any chances of her every attaining a good husband. As I was trying to look in her window…I fell from the trellis…"

A silence fell between them before she finished, "But now I suppose the joke's on me, right?" There was a tinge of bitterness in her in her sweet voice. She flattened herself against two wrought iron fences that each stood guarding an affluent estate, and disappeared into the night.

She was gone.

Spot stood his ground for a few minutes, gazing at the spot which she had once occupied. He felt the tremors come to him immediately, as they wrought their way through his entire body. He immediately flicked the butt of his old cigarette to the cobblestones and placed a new one between his lips, lighting it, and inhaling immediately.

He needed at least once vice to calm his insurmountable nerves.

He may have just very well made a deal with the devil, but what a very pretty devil she was, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Brooklyn's leader had been uncannily quiet all that evening. He sat at the impossibly rickety table in the restaurant, confined between Cowboy and Whitie. He slouched in the wooden chair, derby hat pulled low over his brow, casting a shadow over his face and concealing the grim frown that rode his lips. He had one arm outstretched on the table, fingers clasped around the handle of a nearly untouched stein of beer. He had been immersed in a self reverie even before some of his boys had decided to make the trek to Tibby's to see some of their Manhattan buddies.

No one had seemed to notice the off-setting behavior.

Jack Kelly, the principal player in this Bacchian revelry, sat to his right, his attention torn between the mug of frothing beer he held in one hand and the incredibly delicious girl that worked at a nearby factory that was perched on his lap. He bounced his knees up and down, and the brunette released a tinkling laugh akin to that of a bell. This only drove Cowboy to continue the motion, and the girl dissolved into laughter, nearly falling backward and off his lap in a drunken haze. He caught her in the nick of time, placing a palm on the small of her back and causing her from slamming her skull against the wooden floorboards. This near brush with misfortune only seemed to increase the humor the pair found in the situation, and they collapsed into each other in howls of laughter, Cowboy splashing the remainder of his beer on the floorboards.

Spot arched a brow condescendingly at the display and elicited a disapproving snort, turning his attention away from the pair. He was focused on nothing in particular, when his eye was caught by his best friend. He did a double take, his attention falling to Whitie. Whitie sat beside him, his normally warm green stare hard and glittering, intently locked on the Brooklyn leader. His boyish appearance and handsome face were betrayed by the stern demeanor of his visage and the hard frown lines that surrounded the taut line his lips were drawn into.

Spot's lips turned up in a sneer. "What?" he hissed at Whitie, bringing the mug of frothing beer absentmindedly to his lips.

Whitie's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, and his mouth opened to speak, but his admonishment fell silent as Racetrack Higgins drunkenly banged into the unstable table where the trio was seated, causing the legs to wobble even more, splashing more beer around.

"Heya, Spot," he greeted in his throaty voice, obviously intoxicated with the sweet alcoholic nectar. Spot raised his eyes, only to espy the Italian stumbling in his spot, his signet fuming cigar clenched between his teeth, mug of beer in one hand, the other around the waist of a charming looking blonde creature.

Spot nodded his head curtly in return, eyes on the girl, while reaching behind his ear and procuring a cigarette. He placed it between his lips, lighting quickly, and inhaling hastily.

"Spot," Racetrack flagrantly slurred, "This here is my new friend Libby. But let me tell you…Libby tells me she's a big fan of yours…a big fan."

The blonde elicited a musical titter, and the alcohol must have overloaded her petite person, for she faltered in place, falling neatly into Spot's lap. Her elbows perched on his thighs and her torso between his legs, Libby gazed up at him, ferociously batting thick lashes that framed her blue eyes. In the fall, she had spilled her beer cleanly onto his lap as well, saturating his button down and trousers.

"_What the fuck?" _Spot bellowed in astonishment, leaping out of his chair and to his feet, the cigarette between his lips falling to the floor.

Racetrack erupting in inebriated laughter in the background, Libby crawled on her knees to close the distance between she and Spot before wrapping her arms around a leg, anchoring him squarely to the ground. "I have to yell you," she slurred, gazing up at him, "I love your work. Spot Conlon…I am a huge fan. You read the greatest headlines…ever." Suddenly, a devilish glimmer infiltrated her drunken gaze and her full lips curled into a coy smile, "I would love to read your headline sometime…" With a fluid motion, she had emancipated his leg and her hands were swiftly to the buttons of his trousers, deft fingers beginning to unbutton them.

Libby had almost completed her task before Spot finally had a chance to reel away from her in shock at her skilled alacrity. His ass slammed into the table behind him, catching him off balance, causing him to fall on his back onto the table top, sending mugs of beer flying and eliciting gales of drunken laughter from its occupants.

Libby was upon him in a moment, her devious task nearly complete, when a voice rang over the revelry, heralding news that transformed the mood of the entire room.

"_Hey, sister, you better not touch him, because Spot Conlon's getting married!"_

The words touched Spot's ears like the chilled breath of death, and he suddenly felt the utter air purloined from his lungs. His entire body went rigid, back as straight as a plank of wood against the table top.

A heavy silence shrouded the room for a few moments, before voices were found again.

"What the hell you mean Shady, Spot's getting married? He ain't getting married!"

"He is too; it's all over goddamned town! And getting married to some richie from uptown!"

"Spotty's getting married?"

"When you getting married, Spot?"

"Getting married to a richie, a real richie?"

The myriad voices joined into one cacophonous racket to Spot as he lay paralyzed on the table, as though cold water had been injected into his veins, chilling them to ice. For nearly the only time in his adult life that he could recall, his mind went completely and utterly blank. Instead, it was infiltrated by a curious, primordial fear that he could not explain, a fear that slithered down his backbone, causing the tremors to come to him once more.

Perhaps it was just the tremendous shock of them finding out this quickly…Shade Cotrill, he had recognized it as Shady's cool inflection that had heralded the news…Shade Cotrill who earlier that afternoon at the lodging house had told Spot and Whitie he'd catch up with them later in Manhattan, that he would be running late…Shade Cotrill who's dark good looks had earned him the affection of a wealthy banker's daughter uptown and who he had been having a known affair with…

Spot issued an audible groan at his own stupidity, and closed his eyes. Had he truly been so foolish enough to believe that he could conceal such monumental news from the newsboy population? Of course the news of Devon Northfordshire's little sister-in-law's betrothal to the lowly newsboy that she had been having a flagrant affair with had most likely spread through high society gossip like wildfire. It was only a matter of time before it trickled down through the grapevine…

Hands were on him in a moment, bestowing upon him celebratory claps on the back and shoulders. Arms were linked around either of his, and he was quickly pulled upright to a sitting position on the table. There was a sea of faces before him. They were all drunk, of course, and in no position to question the validity of Shade's profession, only take it as the utmost truth until the alcohol wore off in the morning, and the disbelief and questions of legitimacy would in fact find them. Alas, until soberness found those in attendance at Tibby's, the inebriated get-together had suddenly transformed into a gathering celebrating the engagement of the elusive Leader of Brooklyn to some uptown richie, no questions asked.

More rounds of drinks were ordered, and somewhere in the back of the room someone broke out into a chorus of _For He's a Jolly Good Fellow! _More and more voices joined in, strengthening the choir, until nearly everyone in the room was singing that was not asking him miscellaneous questions, most of which he could not comprehend and none which he answered.

The air in the room was becoming increasingly stifling, until Spot could no longer inhale properly without feeling smothered. He suddenly broke free from those around him, sharply shrugging off their friendly pats, and leapt off the table and to his feet. He was through the sea of revelers in a heartbeat, shouldering brutally past them until he was finally to the main entrance to the restaurant. He pushed open the door with all his might, a tinkling bell signaling his departure, and broke off into a run down the cobblestone walk. The sweet humidity of the summer night struck him immediately, and sweat saturated his brow as he pumped his limbs faster, but it tasted delicious compared to the atmosphere Tibby's had taken on, and he inhaled deeply.

He halted only after he was a few blocks from the restaurant, and collapsed against the façade of a storefront. His lungs were ablaze, and each burning breath he drew sharply in only added to the fire. He doubled over; placing his palms on his thighs, and began to breathe quickly in and out, hyperventilating his lungs. He did not know or care if the gesture was due to lack of oxygen or some wonderful defense mechanism that allowed him to not come to terms for the scene that had just occurred a few moments ago.

He finally stood erect; his back crumbled against the wall, and exhaled deeply. Although it was a balmy night of the dog days of summer and sweat drenched his chest and brow and trickled down his face, he still felt impossibly clammy and cold. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the strands back with the perspiration on his palm. His head fell back against the brick storefront as his mind raced and as he continued to suck in unsteady breaths.

Suddenly a voice sliced through the silence of the night, cutting, sober, and cold as glass. "_Spot."_

Spot turned his head toward the direction of Tibby's to behold and confirm the possessor of the slight Southern drawl, although it was unneeded, for he could pinpoint that distinctive voice blindfolded. Whitie Wilson was closing the distance between them, slowing his run to a lope, his thatch of unruly blond hair bobbing with every stride. Spot turned his eyes away from Whitie and cast his gaze upward to the cold stars and sated moon that sat perched in the blackened sky. He only turned his attention once more to Whitie, when his friend had halted beside him and finally spoke.

"_Spot, what the fuck are you doing?"_

Whitie's breathing was labored, and his gaze reflected unabashed hurt that only a best friend's disloyalty could conjure.

Spot regarded Whitie, before throwing his head back, hysterical laughter escaping his lips. "What am I doing, Wilson, what am I doing? I'm gonna marry a richie and get myself the fuck out of the slums of Brooklyn. That's what I'm doing, Whitie. Spot Conlon's gonna get a silver spoon shoved up his asshole and I'll never have to work another fucking day in my life!" His voice was mad, shrill.

Whitie's green eyes flashed dangerously, the planes of his face hardened. "Don't tell me she's the girl with the red hair that came to your room last night."

"So maybe she was, what's it to you, Wilson?" Spot hissed in retaliation.

Whitie's voice was lower, softened somehow. "Because Spot, after you slammed the door in my face, I heard everything. I heard about your little bargain. How she gets you to marry her for a couple of months and then the shit hits the fan and you get an annulment, and make off on your own happy ways after splitting her dowry. I knew about all this shit before Shady came in there and announced it to everyone. Do you really think that I'd be that goddamned foolish to think that there wasn't something fishy going on with you suddenly up and marrying a richie? With you getting married, period? I'm your best friend, Spot, I know you better than you know yourself. Did you really think you could keep something like this from me?"

With Whitie's words, Spot felt the old wounds in the abysses of his soul that he had attempted so hard to bury rip open once more, and emotions so profound wash over him that his mind was unable to process the damage and injury they had inflicted. He elicited a bridled sob and gazed at Whitie with the eyes of a wounded animal. "You know me better than I know myself? You dare stand there and tell me you know me better than myself? You know what it was like to be Leader of Brooklyn during Oliver Haddox's reign? You knew what it was like, waking up each morning, wondering if you're gonna find a fuckin' corpse of one of your boys floating in the river because Oliver simply got bored and someone had to die? You know what it's like fucking being in love with his sister but hating her with every fiber of your being? And then having to let her go? And not breathe a single word to anyone, about this? About all this hurt and pain and suffering that I try every single day to forget about and pretend like it never happened, otherwise it would completely consume me?

"Who gives a damn if some beautiful, rich girl that I don't even know comes to me, a fuckin' low life newsie, with a plot that includes her wanting to marry me for a little while, and me getting some money out of it? I'm eighteen-goddamned-years-old, Whitie, I can't keep doing this selling papes shit forever, you know it and I know it. And what the hell am I supposed to do with myself once I can't sell papes anymore? I don't know any trades. I don't have any skills. So I marry a beautiful girl for a couple months for some money that will at least give me a fighting chance to survive out there once I don't have the newsies anymore. You don't know shit about me, Wilson. Leave me the fuck alone."

Spot did not even bother with a parting glance at Whitie, for he had taken flight into the humid night, his feet pounding on the cobble stones and his breath jagged and raspy. He did not know or care where he was going, and only stopped when he had procured a magnificent stitch in his right side and his lungs burned with a fury. He slowed to a walk, and doubled over, his mouth a gap as his ragged exhalations escaped him. He viewed the darkened surroundings about him, and surmised that he had sojourned to the pier.

He gradually stood erect once more, hands still on his right side soothing the stitch, as he made his way onto the wooden planks of the pier. He halted only when he reached its terminus, the cold, dark waters lapping at its wooden legs. He dropped down to a sitting position, one leg bent and the other dangling lazily over the edge of the pier. He immediately procured a cigarette from his pocket and lit up quickly and inhaled deeply, relishing as the sweet smoke slithered down his throat. He gazed out at the lazy river that captured the reflection of the cold moon and stars above, chain-smoking, lighting each new cigarette with the lingering butt of the next. Any vice to stave off the tremors.

He eventually reached into his trouser pocket and brought forth a crumpled piece of paper. He opened it, and his eyes scanned the neat, handwritten scrawl of the first line of the letter. _Our Dearest Junior…_

He snorted audibly, and quickly crumpled the paper into a ball once more, shoving it unceremoniously back once more into his pocket. He exhaled deeply; smoke pouring from his nose like a dragon.

"What the hell have you gotten me into, Red?" he whispered to no one in particular.

He was not sure how long he sat motionless there, staring into the cold, dark lapping river, before a throaty voice shattered his reverie. The hot breath of its owner danced along his ear canal, caressed the nape of his neck.

"I thought I'd find you here."

He closed his eyes, and involuntarily smiled, breathing in the familiar, musky scent that she brought with her. "Hello, Adelle," he replied, without opening his eyes.

He felt the soft form of a female drop down next to him, the way the softness of her breasts pressed into his side, the way her nose nuzzled against the sensitive skin behind his ear.

"I just heard the news," she said, her voice low and husky and lips near his ear canal. He shuddered at the hotness of her breath. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward her, only to find his face buried in the depths of her raven hair. He inhaled in the scent.

"I'm going to be a married man."

She broke away from her caress, regarding him with dark eyes rimmed with smudged kohl. A mischievous smile danced on her full lips. "Is that so, Spot Conlon?"

"That is so," he replied, his mouth turned into a grin. He took another drag on the cigarette.

"Well, then, what do you say to one last time, for old time's sake? This time, it's on the house."

He did not have time to reply, for she was upon him like a whisper, wrapping her silky body around him, pressing her soft lips to his. The half-smoked cigarette was an afterthought flung carelessly into the river as her hands raked through his hair, lowering him onto the shadowed pier. Her skilled fingers moved towards the buttons of his trousers, and she was pleasantly surprised to find them already undone, thanks to the previous work of Libby.

Spot lived only in the moment, craving and savoring the familiarity that Adelle brought to him, soothing his nerves better than nicotine ever could. He drank her in, as she professionally slid off his trousers, relinquishing himself to her in the here and now, for tomorrow would bring about a brave, terrifying new world.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Roz looked resplendent.

She was perched on the end of her canopy bed, garbed in Laurel's wedding gown. It was a magnificent garment. When he had been betrothed to Laurel, Devon had spared no expense on his bride, special ordering the dress from Paris. Crafted from creamy white taffeta and Venetian lace, crystals were embedded into the train of the gown, catching the light and allowing the gown to sparkle.

It had looked glorious on Laurel, and it had been such a happy day for all in attendance to the ceremony when she had worn it. It was in stark contrast to the tone of this particular day.

Although Roz was about the same size as her sister, the gown felt constricting, too binding, not allowing her to breathe. She wore the gown, not because Devon was concerned with her appearance on the day of her wedding, but because the garment had been hanging in Laurel's wardrobe, untouched from when she had last worn it, and perfect for an expedited ceremony.

She sat on the bed, hunched over, her brow resting in her hands. She felt incredibly sickened, as though she could disgorge the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor. Her normally pale skin contained even less color than usual. She was as white as a sheet. Her tangles of red hair had not been lovingly preened over professionally as Laurel's had been on her wedding day. Instead, Laurel herself had pulled her sister's hair back into a neat chignon at the base of the neck, securing it with one of their mother's pearl hair pins, a heirloom that had been passed on to them after her passing.

Roz lifted her head from her hands, staring into the full length vanity mirror before her, her eyes trained on her reflection. She cursed the sight of herself. She released a stifled sob, quickly averting her eyes from the mirror. She rose suddenly, striding across the room in the heavy garment, pausing at the set of glass French doors that opened to the balcony, the balcony that had been the genesis of this entire mishap…

Roz gazed out, pressing her forehead and palms against the glass. It was as though Mother Nature herself was showing her disapproval for Roz's actions. It was utterly miserable outside. The usually balmy summer weather had instead been replaced instead today by angry, dark clouds and torrents of harsh rain, instantly soaking anything that dare linger outside too long.

She sighed a melancholy sigh. "I guess the day wouldn't be complete without it, now would it?"

For all her wild, unchecked imagination, never could she have conjured that the events that she had proposed to the newsboy—leader of them all, none the less—would spiral so maddeningly out of control.

As he had promised to her on their last meeting before they had parted under the street lamps on the darkened streets outside Devon's estate, he had shown up on the day prior to ask for her hand in marriage.

The entire scene had been an utter disaster from the beginning, just as the saner half of Roz's mind had warned her. As that balmy morning had segued into an even milder afternoon, Roz had aimlessly lolled about the estate, that friendly pit never once leaving her stomach, as she breathlessly awaited his arrival. Since he had not bestowed upon her a certain time that he might make his presence known at the Northfordshire estate, Roz was kept on pins and needles all day, filling the day with empty tasks to keep her mind preoccupied.

She had been up at the crack of dawn, despite not returning home until late hours of the night, when the first rays of the breaking sun were nuzzling in through the cracks of the heavy drapery that hung over the French doors. She had dressed early, and breakfasted with Laurel and her two little ones. Devon had been conspicuously absent from his customary seat at the head of the table. Laurel, feigning her usual sunny disposition, had spoken nothing of the previous night's events and simply excused his absence from having to be at the bank early that morning. After breakfast, she had toddled about the gardens with the little ones, playing an absentminded game of croquette with them. Little Tory, though, unfortunately had seemed to have more interest in chasing butterflies from flower to flower instead of playing, and dear little Two—the eldest, his true appellation Devon Northfordshire, Jr—took the game far too seriously. So for as many strokes as he had missed, Roz missed twice as many, until the game completed with Two being victorious and shouting with glee.

She had been in her chambers, dressing for afternoon tea, when she had been called for.

Lizzy, a spritely looking little thing with an alarmingly strong Cockney accent, could be heard bounding down the hallway outside of Roz's room, huffing and puffing with each curt stride. "Miss Rialto! Miss Rialto!" she had called. The housemaid's voice had just been outside of Roz's door when she was aware that she was needed.

Lizzy had rapped abruptly on Roz's door, not even pausing for a customary reply of whether she had been granted egress or not, when she threw the door open, and popped her head inside the room.

Roz had been in the midst of placing the last few fastenings of a gauzy white gown for tea in front of the vanity, when she abruptly halted and snapped her head over her shoulder at the intruding housemaid. "Lizzy!" she cried, clutching the sheer fabric of the gown together. "What on earth do you think you are doing just barging into my room like a herd of cattle! I am in the middle of dressing for afternoon tea. Please do close the door on your way out!"

Lizzy had apologetically curtsied in Roz's direction as she stepped into the chamber, the door swinging open behind her. Her freckles had stood out almost fluorescently against the blanched paleness of her face from running with such force. Her white cap had been askew revealing a kinked red tendril astray across her brow. Roz had gazed at the housemaid's demeanor reflected by the vanity mirror. Lizzy had appeared too nervous for her liking. Her stomach had once more began performing somersaults.

"I'm sorry, Miss Rialto," she had remorsefully replied. "But Mr. Northfordshire wants to see you right away. He sent me up here in such a hurry to fetch you. I'm sorry, Miss."

The color had been instantaneously drained from Roz's face. Her breath had bated painfully in her throat. She had stared straight ahead into the vanity mirror, staring past her reflection until her image blurred.

He had finally come.

The company that she had been so dreading all day had finally made his presence aware at the Northfordshire estate. While she had been dressing so unawares for afternoon tea, had he already been speaking with Devon, asking for her hand in marriage?

The notion that had seemed so utterly brilliant and full proof the night before, suddenly had descended upon Roz as utterly maddening and incomprehensible. She had issued a harsh epithet under her breath before turning on her heels and bounding out of the room, disregarding the fact that the white gown was not fastened all the way and her hair was still a fright from playing outside with the children earlier in the day.

Lizzy had released a startled yelp as Roz leapt past her, springing out of the door way and sprinting barefoot down the plushly carpeted hallway of the Northfordshire estate. She had taken the stairs two at a time, until she reached their terminus that revealed the foyer. Past the foyer, she had entered into the parlor, where she disrupted a silence so thick it could have been sliced cleanly with a knife.

As she had stood at the parlor entrance, Devon had been closest to her. His back had been to her, but his tall figure was undeniable, clothed in an immaculately tailored ebony suit, his sandy colored hair slicked back from the crown. Laurel had been sitting in a high backed chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her thumbs twiddling furiously. Her eyes had been trained on the gentleman that had been occupying the center of the parlor…

Spot Conlon had been the only one to take immediate notice of her presence. His piercing eyes had been locked on her as soon as she had halted at the parlor entrance. She had noticed immediately smirk that had been ever so slightly upon his face, the way his eyes shown all too bright. Characteristic traits aside, she hardly would have known the man standing in the center of the room as Spot Conlon.

He had stood, proud and erect, displaying his true height. He had been garbed in a dark, elegant pinstripe suit, immaculately tailored to every subtle niche of his frame. His brassy hair had slicked back from the brow, much akin in a fashion of Devon's. Her astonished eyes had even dropped down to his feet. Upon them had been a pair of perfectly shined shoes.

Her lips had parted slightly at the sight of him. Her breath had been stolen once again. He was able to shine up better than a new penny…

Roz had been too busy drinking in the sight of him, her brain racing and inquiring where on earth had he acquired such a lovely suit from, that she had been startled when the two other pairs of the eyes finally fell upon her, recognizing her presence.

She had elicited a gasp, her gaze falling to Devon. He had turned over his shoulder to regard her. His handsome features were twisted into a severe, stern mask.

"Roselyn," he barked immediately, extending a hand to motion at the newsboy, "dare you attempt to fabricate a lie for what the meaning of this is?"

Roz had felt her knees suddenly become weak under Devon's furious stare. She had issued a delicate titter, sweeping into the parlor, leaving a purposeful amount of distance between Spot and she. "The meaning of what, my dear Devon?" she had inquired in a light voice, feigning ignorance.

Devon had resembled a volcano on the verge of erupting. His skin had even been taking on the same fabulous shade of red that lava was colored. "This boy here has the gall to come to me in my own house and ask for your hand in marriage. Not even a full day after he disgraced your name to all good society!"

He had been at her defense without even missing a beat. "Mr. Northfordshire, as I had explained to you before Miss Rialto joined us, and allow me to reiterate once more to restate my sincerity, I never had any dishonorable intentions for Miss Rialto. I present myself to you, sir, at this moment so that I may right any wrongs that I may have caused against Miss Rialto's character. I am asking for her hand in marriage because I have loved her from afar for entirely too long. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love Miss Rialto."

Had it not been for the grave seriousness of the entire situation, Roz would have openly gaped at the newsboy with complete and unadulterated incredulity. Had he just stolen a quote from Austen, at the moment in Pride and Prejudice when Mr. Darcy finally confesses his true feelings to Miss Bennet?

Alas, Roz had not been allotted time to contemplate the notion, for Spot was immediately at her side, his hands engulfing hers between his. His scent entered had her nostrils and filled her head immediately. It had been a musky scented cologne he had chosen to wear. She had nearly smiled dreamily in spite of herself. She had heard only snippets of the remaining conversation, she was far too preoccupied inhaling his scent, and of ruminating of how his coarse suntanned hands felt clasped around hers.

Devon had been fabulously infuriated, and was asking how in the hell he intended to support her as a newsboy. Spot had replied with some sort of line that he was going to be the owner of a bookshop…Roz's mind had not register his response, and as far as she was concerned it could have been a fabrication for all she cared. She had been enjoying too much his strong grip enveloping her small hands.

She believed that he had gone over the perfectly plotted lie that she had divulged to him the night prior…of the two of them being star crossed lovers who had been secretly seeing each other but now wanted to make it official and tie the knot…

The only fact that perhaps mattered in the end was that Devon had begrudgingly consented to the unholy union. It would be a small, purposely hushed affair, in the Northfordshire house, the following morning. Only the bride, groom, minister, Devon, and Laurel need be present.

And now here the bride sat, perched on the edge of her canopy bed, garbed in her wedding attire, ruminating over the events that brought her to this most unhappy day in her life.

There was a short series of raps on her door, and Roz did not even lift her head as the door was softly opened. It was Lizzy to collect her once more, but this time her voice was quieter. "Miss Rialto, they are ready for ye, Miss."

Roz rose from the bed, her head compounded with too many thoughts to possibly comprehend, and obediently followed Lizzy out into the hallway, and down the stairs, halting when she came to the terminus.

She lingered for a moment, her head still down, when a familiar voice spoke to her, hot breath dancing in her ear canal. Her breath becoming lodged in her throat, she turned her eyes upward to find Spot Conlon at her side. His smile was deceivingly easy going and his eyes misleadingly bright. If he had any reservations about the arrangement they were about to consummate, his body language deceived him.

As Roz stared into his eyes, she came to the rapt realization that she was truly going to marry this man that she had known for less than two days and knew absolutely nothing about.

Of course, it was public knowledge that he was the elusive, notorious Spot Conlon, Fearless Leader of the Brooklyn Newsies, who claimed an unsatiated appetite for women. But here, standing beside this man, as he linked his arms with hers, in his exceedingly tailored suit and immaculately polished shoes, she understood that there was much, much more to his person than just fearsome newsboy leader. His tailored suit, his quoting Austen, some talk of becoming proprietor of a bookstore…all these tantalizing mysteries were just more unexplained pieces in the puzzle that were Spot Conlon.

And she certainly had at least a few months to figure his at least some of his mysteries out…all for the tidy sum of five thousand dollars.

A thought suddenly dawned upon her, and Roz placed her mouth to his ear. "What is your real name?"

"What?" he cried in response, pulling away from her, seemingly taken aback by the question.

"Well, if we are getting married, don't you at least think I should know your real name? I know your parents did not name you Spot."

He studied her for a moment, his eyes scanning her face hurriedly, a pregnant pause hanging between them. He seemed hesitant to reply, before he finally choked out answer. "Jonathan. Jonathan Conlon, Jr."

Roz issued a prolonged sign, staring forward. "Nice to meet you, Johnny," she murmured softly, quickly drawing the sign of the cross over her breast with one hand, while Spot Conlon lead her forward to where the rest of the wedding party was already awaiting their arrival.

A/N: Truly sorry for the lack of updates. Life's been crazy between work/school. And thank you so much to those who review. They keep me writing!


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

The newly anointed Mrs. Jonathan Conlon, Jr. sat stiff as a board in the plush seat of the carriage, staring out the tiny window at the storm that raged outside.

Even though evening had since fallen, one would not be able to decipher so, since the sky had taken on the same bruised hue all day. A flash of lightening illuminated the darkened sky for a brief second, before vanishing as suddenly as it has occurred. The deep, throaty rumble of thunder called soon after its bright counterpart.

Roz turned her head from the window, disgusted the thought of having to continue to blankly stare at the torrents of rain that saturated the surroundings outside. Her gaze fell instead to her accomplice in this ruse of counterfeit matrimony. Her new husband was sprawled on the seat opposite of her in the carriage, back slid down the back of the seat and ass nearly hanging off its edge. His long legs were spread out before him. The once immaculate appearance that he had displayed for those at the Northfordshire estate was beginning to disintegrate, crumble to ruin. The ebony tuxedo jacket had been shucked off sometime in the span of the carriage ride and lay in a sorry heap next to him on the carriage seat. The once crisp white dress shirt was showing the first signs of wrinkles. He had loosened the bow tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons, revealing a glimpse of his throat. The sleeves were now rolled up to the elbows, exposing the lean, tanned forearms that were crossed casually over his chest. A shabby gray derby cap had materialized at some point, and said cap now covered the once neat hair that was now awry and his slumbering visage.

Roz snorted in spite of herself, her lips curling in repulsion at the sight. It was no wonder she had never held an unfathomable desire for impractical romance tales like Lorelei did. Mr. Darcys did not just routinely glide into lovelorn young ladies' lives just to sweep them off their feet.

Such a ridiculous notion was something that only occurred in preposterous tales of whimsy written by authors who understood nothing of the true dealings between man and woman.

And those dealings did certainly not include happily ever after.

The carriage passed over a bump in the cobblestone road, causing the cart to shake somewhat. This motion caused her newly betrothed spouse to elicit a sonorous snore, before being jolted awake. His head snapped up to rapt attention, causing the cap to fall, and his arms extended to his side, palms pressing against the crushed velvet of the carriage seats. His hair stuck up at all ends and his eyes were wide.

"_What the blue fuck was that_?" he cried, his gaze turning from side to side, as though still attempting to decipher where he was.

His derby cap landed at her feet, and Roz kicked is away with a swift thrust. She rolled her eyes in his direction, not knowing or caring if he noticed the gesture. Married life was already commencing to exasperate her. "It was your dignity," she muttered in a low voice, each word laced with venom.

At her eyes, his eyes became electric, and his lips pulled into a sneer. He leaned forward in his seat, slicking his hair back with one sweeping motion. "My dignity?" his voice was incredulous, but laced with a dangerous undertone. "As far as anyone's concerned, baby, I've made it. I've moved up in the world. A lowly newsboy getting hitched to a richie? But not just any richie. Oh, no. It just happens to be goddamned Roselyn Rialto, whose brother in law is one of the richest bankers in New York. You, Red, on the other hand, for the hefty sum of five thousand smackers, you are the new Mrs. Conlon and have me Spot Conlon, no good, womanizin', sonofabitchin' newsie from Brooklyn to be your husband. As far as your dignity is concerned, my dear, it's jumped off the fuckin' Brooklyn Bridge."

Roz's mouth fell open in unabashed incredulity. Her pale skin flushed, her face turning just as red as the hue of her hair. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner! If I were to tell Devon he would…"

"If you were to tell Devon your bullshit line that we weren't tragically star-crossed lovers and instead we are married all because I was trying to get some ass and you were spying on me and made a deal to split his dowry with me so you could run away and become an author? Is that what you would tell him, Red, is it?" He had reclined back into the seat, his arms crossed over his chest. A smug simper adorned his lips.

Roz issued an exasperated cry at his direction, her face red as the Devil's hide. She paused for a moment, collection her breath and her thoughts. She exhaled gently. "I, Mr. Conlon, am not without my problems. Yes, I do want to, as you so articulately put it, 'want to run away and write.' But at least I am doing something proactive to achieve what is missing in my life, unlike you who feels the urge to bed every girl you come in contact with to fill some empty void that is haunting you and always chasing at your heels. And by the way, please do tell, since it's the query that indeed got me into this misfortune: Was Georgiana Walker a good lay?"

She knew in a moment that she had found the chink his cool, aloof exterior. His eyes immediately darkened, turning the same shade of blue of the sea before an impending storm. It was a curious expression on his handsome face. It was one of menace, a stare that he must reserve for only his most hated enemies, but underlying that mask of danger, was an undeniable agony and regret that flashed briefly across his face, and was gone as fleetingly as it had appeared. He averted his eyes from her and fished wish a shaky hand into his trouser pocket, procuring a cigarette, which he aptly placed between his lips and lit up quickly, inhaling just as expediently.

She regarded him, staring intently at the carriage floor and puffing away furiously on his cigarette. Roz suddenly felt a pit in her stomach and a surge of shamefulness surge over her. She instantly wished she could have taken the words back, wished that she would have bitten her tongue. Indeed, it did not matter in the least what demons the Leader of Brooklyn had; that knowledge was his own personal discretion only. She need not know anything more about him than the fact that she now was his mistress and carrier of his name, and in a few months they would part, becoming once more strangers as they had only a few days before.

She leaned forward, cupping her delicate hands around one of his large, calloused ones. He pulled away abruptly, but she held fast, caging his hand within hers.

"I am truly sorry for what I just said." Her voice was low, repentant. "I should be doing nothing but thanking you for putting you through the absurdities that I have since I have met you…You've done nothing but shown unfathomable kindness to me for not only participating in this ludicrous plan but altering your life for me, if only for the time being. I spoke out of turn, and for that I apologize. Will you forgive me?"

He regarded her, eyes cool as ice and smoke pouring from his nose akin to a dragon. He paused a moment. "I will on one condition."

"Anything," she replied without hesitation.

"Just don't fall in love with me."

Gazing at that unreadable stone face, Roz was unable to tell if he was just jesting…or if perhaps he was being serious.

They reached the townhouse well past dusk.

At the arrival, Roz had been slumbering in the carriage seat, her head lolled to one side. She awoke to the sound of voices outside, attempting to shout over the unforgivable rain that still ravaged the city. She opened her eyes at the voices, and raised her head, immediately grimacing in pain at the stitch that had formed in one side of her neck. Spot was nowhere to be seen. Gently placing a hand to her neck, she began to rub away the pain, and turned to peer out the window at the direction the voices were radiating from.

She narrowed her eyes, struggling to see well enough through the downpour and the darkness. She garnered that the carriage had at last reached its destination and had halted in front of the townhouse. She noted two figures on the walk outside of the townhouse. One was a short, stocky man wearing a black rain coat, obviously the carriage driver. The other was her husband, hair plastered to his head, white shirt rendered see-through and trousers soaked, gesturing wildly to the carriage driver. The soundless altercation seemed to last a few moments, before Spot proceeded to present the carriage driver an unfriendly gesture with his middle digit. After this, the carriage driver disappeared from Roz's line of view, but she soon felt the carriage rock under his weight as he once again climbed atop it.

While Roz's attention was diverted by the driver, the door to the carriage suddenly swung open, revealing Spot Conlon soaked to the bone. His dirty blond hair was matted across his forehead and his lithe chest was quite visible under the sheer dampness of the dress shirt.

He made a motion with his head. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, we're here and we ain't got all day. Take that for some cover." He motioned to his suit jacket that lay crumbled on the seat where he had last left it. "It's raining cats and dogs out there."

"But what about the bags…" Roz started.

Spot cut her off with an exasperated sigh, grabbing the suit jacket. "All the shit's already in the house. Now hurry up and get your ass inside before I catch my death out here."

In a fluid motion, he had swung the jacket over Roz and, taking one of her hands in his, pulled her out of the carriage and onto the walk outside. The rain began pelting Roz immediately, and she elicited a gasp of shock as the cold rain began saturating her. But Spot had her hunched form under his arm already and had ushered her up the front stairs and into the main entrance of the townhouse.

As soon as the rain had started, it stopped once they were inside the foyer of the townhouse. Roz immediately straightened, shucking off the damp jacket and allowing it to fall to the ground, to peer around at her darkened surroundings. She could not even make out the form of Spot in the room, who could have been a few feet or a few inches away from her, until she heard the striking of a match and the birth of the faint glow of light next to her.

He was by her side, busy holding aloft a lantern, which he put the miniscule flame to. Suddenly, the flame caught in the lantern and the surroundings a few feet on either side of them were bathed in the faint glow of light.

He held the lantern, circling around, admiring what he could of the foyer.

"What did you say this place was?"

"A townhouse of Devon's," she replied, attempting to make out some forms of objects in the darkened foyer, yet it was a futile act. "It's close to the bank. He stays here sometimes when he needs to be close to the job. But now it's ours."

Spot halted in admiring what little furnishings he could view and turned over his shoulder to regard her incredulously. "_Ours_?"

Roz nodded. "Oh, yes. All ours. Welcome home, _dear_. Unfortunately, it's just us for the night. The servants will not arrive until morning."

He raised an eyebrow. "_Servants_?"

Roz issued a laugh in spite of herself. "Well, you said it yourself, Mr. Conlon, you've moved up in the world. What else would you expect?"

He cast a glare in her direction before stooping and picking up a suitcase with the hand that was not occupied with the lantern. "What do you say we hit the hay, Red? Me, personally, I'm cold, wet, and tired as hell."

He started forward, the glow of the lantern illuminating the bottom of the grand staircase that lead to the second floor and the bedrooms…

…And the bedrooms.

Roz suddenly froze mid-step, paralyzed at past words that her bridegroom had uttered when they had been striking the bargain…

_What about my needs, Red…You knew of my reputation when you came calling upon me with your little business proposal, Red…Did you really think I would accept without you giving any thoughts to my…__carnal __needs as a man…I see nothing wrong with it, Red…After all, if we are to be married, then it is perfectly acceptable within the eyes of the law that I, as husband, should have access to my bride as I see fit…_

She released a sharp gasp.

He halted, turned around and gazed at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

She stood rooted to the floor, gazing as the soft glow of the lantern played against the shadows on this incredibly handsome man who she was now legally bound to in matrimony in the eyes of the law…the way the hard planes of his lithe chest were so apparent under the rain-saturated shirt…the way the soaked trousers clung to every curve of his sinewy legs…the way beads of rain water trailed down the side of his face from his slicked-back hair…that here standing before her was the man she had _married_…the Leader of Brooklyn, nonetheless!...with his notorious, insatiable appetite for women…and she, silly inexperienced Roz Rialto who hadn't even been in the same room alone with a man for the entirety of her life up until two days ago had signed her innocence away to him…so that he may do with her what he wish, when he wish…and all because one night of scandal.

She felt her vision become hazy, and her knees buckle under her. His arms were under her before she struck the floor, and he swept her up, balancing the suitcase and lantern also as he ascended the darkened stairs

He turned in at the first room on the right; judging by its opulent furnishings, it was the master suite. He lay Roz upon the bed, where she immediately sunk into the plush bedding of the fine canopy bed. He placed the little suitcase next to the bed and strode across the room, striking another match and lighting a little kerosene lamp that was situated on a small table.

Roz sat up in bed with a start, watching as the flickering light illuminated his form crouched across the room. The chill from the rain was starting to get the best of her, and she began shivering uncontrollably in her dampened clothes.

He spoke without missing a beat, his back still to her. "You should have a change of clothes in your suitcase. You'd better change, or you'll catch pneumonia. Trust me; I'm not going to look."

Watching him like a hawk, and her eyes never leaving him, Roz slowly inched off the bed until she stood, her feet sinking into plush carpeting. She reached down grasping the suitcase handle in one hand, and backed away to a darkened corner of the room. When she was satisfied that he would not be able to view her through the darkness, she immediately went to work with skilled fingers, unfastening the buttons of her saturated dress. She allowed the garment to drop to the floor, and she kicked it away, concentrating on undoing the sties to her corset and finally peeling off her cotton undergarments. Blindly reaching for the suitcase, she unlocked it and prodded inside until she felt the soft, warm material of her nightgown. She pulled the garment out with a relish and immediately threw it over her head, silently rejoicing of being emancipated from her wet clothing.

When she had finished dressing, she slunk back toward the bed, her eyes all the time on Spot. In the time span that she had been dressing for bed, he had built a roaring fire in a high marble fireplace directly across from the master bed. His back still to her, he had stripped off the saturated shirt, and stood before the fire, bare-chested and suspenders hanging at his sides. He briskly was rubbing his hands together before the fire, and was blowing on it, stoking it.

Roz saw this as her only chance and sprinted the rest of the distance to the canopy bed, pulling back the covers, and quickly diving under them, pulling them up to her chin.

This gesture must have alerted Spot to her presence, for her turned toward her. "Got a fire going," he said, gesturing to the fire. She noticed for the second time since she had met him the small silver key that hung around his neck on a piece of leather. It was glittering in the glow of the fire. "Should keep you warm for the rest of the night."

Roz regarded him, tightening the covers around her chin, unknowingly crossing her legs as tightly as she could. She watched as he bent down to retrieve his shirt, and took one last look at the fire.

Her mind was racing as she took in his form illuminated by the fire. Is this when he would want to consummate the marriage? Oh what in the world would a man of such earthly knowledge want to do with her?

Instead, he quietly turned away from her and strode toward the door. He opened it, and paused, looking over his shoulder at her. "I'll be in one of the rooms down the hall if you need me." He stepped out into the hallway, pulled the door inaudibly closed behind him, and was gone.

Just like that, he was gone.

It took Roz a few moments to comprehend what had just occurred. She was alone in the darkened room. There was silence save only for the pitter-patter of rain outside and the crackling of the fire which warmed the otherwise cold master chamber.

Roz sat up straight in bed, staring at the door, staring at where he had been.

The entire incident was absolute ludicrousness in and of itself.

The notion struck her instantaneously, and she was out of bed in a flash, rendering the covers a heaping mess on the floor. She was to the suitcase, rifling through it until she found her loose sheets of paper and ink pen. Seating herself crossed-legged before the crackling, warm fire her husband had built for her, Roz Rialto began writing furiously.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The platinum band on his left ring finger felt impossibly heavy, alien, on his calloused digit.

In response he buried his hands even further into his trouser pockets, so far until the tips of his fingers could feel the lint particles brushing against them. This gesture did nothing to distill the precious metal's coldness. He exhaled deeply, rescinding himself to futility, and ducked his capped head, weaving his way through the bustling streets of Brooklyn.

It was an impossibly, disgustingly humid morning. The rain that had pounded the earth for the past few days had subsided; the heavy, slate colored clouds had parted to reveal the sun once more in his breathtakingly scorching glory. He had woken early, in hopes that he could have dodged some of the heat, perhaps still able to catch the tail end of night's refreshing coolness. Luck was not to be on his side that day, and beads of sweat trickled down his brow already. He puffed his red cheeks out and drew out a long breath, snatching off his derby cap and wiping away the beads with a swipe of the forearm. He halted for a brief moment, cursing his rash decision to wear the old, five-fingered discounted trousers and the blue button down that had belonged to one of his buddies, which one exactly it had been, the name escaped him.

But they had been the only set of clothes that he possessed from his former life. They had been the clothes that he had worn as he had sold his last pape, and the clothes that had been so hurriedly shucked off in a desolate alleyway between two buildings, as he had parted ways with them for the immaculately tailored suit in which he had mustered every fiber of courage in his body to ask for the hand in marriage of Devon Northfordshire's ward. After that moment, his entire wardrobe, not to mention his entire life, had transformed forever, for better or for worse.

It had been a flurry, as he had been immediately whisked away to be fitted by Northfordshire's personal tailor for his the suit in which he would wear for his role as bridegroom. Hands had been all over his body with tape, including measuring his inseam and too uncomfortably close to his crotch for his liking.

The suit had been crafted in a rush, just as the wedding had happened in the blink of an eye in every manner as a shotgun wedding would, except the bride had not been impregnated with his spawn. Northfordshire may have very easily have thought this notion…why else would he agree to give his debutante's hand over to penniless, reprehensible ruffian Spot Conlon, lowly newsie from Brooklyn?

But, for whatever his reasoning, he had handed over the pale, soft-skinned hand of Roselyn Rialto, which Spot had clasped in his own calloused, tanned hand as they were joined as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Conlon, in the eyes of God. Correction, Northfordshire had handed not over his ward, but her robust dowry. Spot, though, had not even thought of the dowry until he had been laying in one of the darkened rooms of their new brownstone, stripped of his saturated clothes and listening to the rain strike against the roof. It was only at that moment that he had a glimpse of just how truly his life would changed by the agreement that he had shook on with his now wife. He had never thought through thoroughly how he would have to alter his life to take part in her con. That he could no longer be a newsie had not even dawned upon him. It was only after he agreed to marry the girl that he realized that someone of her caliber could not be wedded to a newsboy. He would have to procure a respectable job, and respectable clothes, and respectable friends…

…Friends. Considering friends, he had not spoken to or seen any of his friends since that night at Tibby's when Shady had let the cat out of the bag that Spot was getting hitched to a richie…not even Whitie Wilson.

Spot lifted his head, his eyes immediately becoming blinded by the sun's brilliant white rays. He placed a hand over his eyes to shelter them from the light, and a sad smile found its way to his lips. His feet had instinctively taken him to the place he had been sojourning while he had been lost in thought the entire trip. They had brought him to the only place that he had called home for the past six years. The Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House stood before him.

He closed his eyes and inhaled in deeply. The smells of Brooklyn struck him immediately, smells he knew like the back of his hand. Brooklyn was inextricably in his blood for the rest of his natural life, no matter where he would reside. She would always be a part of him, forever linked with him. Brooklyn would always be his home,

He opened his eyes, and covered the remaining distance to the lodging house, sprinting easily up the main doors, and sliding silently through the front door. The immense humidity hit him immediately. The entire structure was like a giant heat trap in the summer, and more often than not the boys stayed away until evening when it became cooler, most likely to be seen horsing around at the pier in their long johns and pushing each other into the water.

Intuition correct, the lower level of the lodging house appeared already deserted, but Spot still moved cautiously, not wanting to be seen by the wrong party. He mutely progressed onward, passing the foyer on his left and the ramshackle rounded table that occupied the corner, the epicenter for innumerable drunken poker parties. A flash of nostalgia washed over him, but he did not pause to reminisce. He reached the stairs to the upper floor, and his palm found the banister and lovingly caressed its smoothed wood. He ascended wordlessly, his steps deliberately light, until he reached their terminus. The second floor hallway loomed before him, and he guardedly looked left, then right down its expanse. Still no one to be seen.

He treaded slowly, meticulously, each step perfectly calculated as to not step on the wrong section of board that would sing of his arrival. When he reached the opened door at the end of the hallway, he paused before it, breath bated in his throat. He cocked his head, peering ever so slightly inside. All he could espy were the rows of emptied bunks and rumpled bedding. And then he heard the faint humming, and his lips curved into a smile despite himself. He would be safe.

He exhaled deeply, and the tensed muscled immediately loosened, as he presented himself in the doorway to the being in the bunk room. The boards creaked under his weight, signaling his presence.

Whitie Wilson turned on his heels immediately. He had been nimbly buttoning his crimson collared shirt, and the task remained half complete, a slice of his bare chest exposed. Spot concluded that he looked like shit. His normally neat thatch of white blond hair stood up on end, and dark circles rode the crevices of his eyes. The whites of his eyes were utterly bloodshot, and, most surprisingly of all, a smoldering cigarette dangled lazily from his jutted lips. Whitie, being blessed with a multitude of allergies, had always burst into horrid coughing fits when surrounded by the billows of cigarette smoke of the other newsies, but now here he stood, puffing away like a pro such as Racetrack Higgins.

"Since when did you start taking up such bad habits?" Spot called to him.

Whitie only issued a fabulous glare in response, his reddened eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He took one last, long drag before spitting out the butt and snubbing it with the toe of his boot. He finished buttoning his shirt hastily. "Everyone needs a vice."

Spot nearly flinched by the amount of hatred in his friend's normally soft spoken inflection. He then dropped all humorous pretenses, his grim faltering and his eyes becoming sincere. He began to take a few steps in Whitie's direction. "Whitie…" he began, but he was brutally interrupted.

"Spare me the bullshit, Conlon." Whitie snapped, hurriedly gathering his belongings from his bunk. "I should have seen this coming from a mile away. So you get to marry your richie. Congradu-fucking-lations. I hope you have a happy life."

Whitie stormed past Spot, and the former reached out to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, but Whitie fiercely shrugged off the gesture. "Save it, Conlon." He turned to Spot suddenly, his eyes flashing dangerously, the hurt and anger registering in them unbelievable." He ran a hand through his hair and laughed thinly. "You know Spot, I always defended you. I always stuck up for you no matter what anybody said about you. I would always set them straight, whether I had to do it with fists or with words, but I always did it because, deep down, I knew what kind of guy you were. Well you know what, it was all bullshit. A crock of bullshit! You run out on me, on your boys, on Brooklyn, to marry some rich bitch and you don't even tell me. You run out, disappear, and I am left picking up the pieces. Do you know how many people have asked me about you? Not only all our boys, but Jacky, and Racey, and every last lot of them, they are wanting to know what happened to you. Wanting to know why you ran out of Tibby's and wanting to know who the hell this richie is you married and what the hell happened to Spot Conlon."

He elicited a disgusted laugh and shoved his way past Spot, slamming his derby cap onto his pate, every enraged stride carrying him closer to the doorway.

"Her name is Roselyn Rial…Roselyn Conlon. Her name is Roselyn Rialto, Whitie."

Spot's simple statement caused Whitie to freeze midstride in the doorway. A pregnant pause hung in the air, as Spot regarded the back of Whitie's figure.

"What happened to me is she originally made me an offer I can't resist…but…_oh Christ, Whitie!" _Spot's voice suddenly became shrill, and he sunk down onto the decrepit mattress of the lower bunk he was near. "_I don't know_. This girl…I don't know her, I don't know a damned thing about her…but I do know she is the best goddamned thing that has ever happened to me. She's so…when I'm around her…I can't talk…my heart seems to jump into my mouth and make my tongue and lips to shit…I can't breathe…I feel like there is a fuckin' vice around my heart…I don't know…everything I've ever known my whole life with dames, everything I've ever relied on just flies out the fuckin' window when I'm with her…"

Whitie glanced over his shoulder to regard Spot, who was passionately staring at his raised palms before him. He then raised his eyes to lock Whitie's stare, his blue eyes flashing. His voice suddenly grew quiet. "You know I would never, could never tell any of this shit to anyone else in the world but you. You're my best friend, Whitie, for Christ's sake. But this girl, she's a good girl, and she deserves so much more than I could ever possibly provide for her. And I know it's a con, and I know she is using me, but, damn, in the time I have with her…I want to give her a good, respectable life, and being a newsie, Whitie, ain't gonna cut it."

Whitie was then hunkered on the bunk across from Spot. "I came here today, Wilson, because I needed to ask you to do something that I wouldn't ask of anyone else. I need you to be leader of Brooklyn until this is over."

Whitie was silent for a moment, his green eyes widened, comprehending what Spot had just asked of him. He appeared flabbergasted. "Spot…I don't…"

"I need you to say yes."

"Yes," Whitie replied breathlessly. The understanding of the magnitude of what he had just agreed to finally dawned upon him, and he grinned crookedly for a moment. He turned back to Spot. "What are you gonna do then, buddy?"

Spot exhaled slowly, a cold shiver running down his spine. "Go home, Whitie. Go home."

The house was still the same. The red bricks looked like they were liable to collapse into a heap, and the roof was lacking a shingle or two, but still, it looked the same when he had left it eight years prior.

He placed his booted feet upon the cobblestones of the walkway and closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the scent of the sweet summer grass. A thousand memories of yesteryear abruptly invaded his brain, and a wave of nostalgia swept over him. He felt a hot tear prick the corner of his eye, and he battled regain his composure. So many years spent away from this place, and now he had returned.

He reached the brown oak door upon which a little sign hung by a nail read "God Bless This House."

His lips curled into a gleaming smile. He was beside himself. He rapped quickly on the door.

He heard the bustle of feet inside, and a familiar voice call, "Be right there!"

He adjusted his tie, and smoothed the bottom of his suit coat. He was briefly aware for a fleeting moment of the cold metal band that adorned his left ring finger, but all was forgotten as the door was flung open and he saw her standing there.

"Hello, Momma. I'm home."

A/N: I truly apologize for the long time in between updates! I swear I have not forgotten about this story! I started grad school, plus working full time, so I have had no time at all! Luckily, it is X-mas break and I am going to part time work, so I should have more time for writing. Once again, thank you to all who read and review. I appreciate it so much.


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